


Life After Wartime

by rosecake



Category: The Last Ship (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Rachel Lives, References to Canon-Typical Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosecake/pseuds/rosecake
Summary: Construction on her new laboratory was already well underway by the time Rachel was out of her hospital bed.
Relationships: Tom Chandler/Rachel Scott
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Life After Wartime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hariboo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hariboo/gifts).



Construction on her new laboratory was already well underway by the time Rachel was out of her hospital bed.

Tom had her good arm linked with his, guiding and supporting her as they slowly made their way through the construction site. Her pride told her that she didn’t need to be supported, that it had been over a month since she was shot and she could walk just fine on her own, but she enjoyed the feel of him too much to let go.

“It’ll be impressive once it’s done,” he said.

“I have no doubt.” Rachel had seen the blueprints, had gone ahead and approved them herself once she was conscious enough to recognize what she was looking at. And as they’d walked in she had seen the newly laid foundations and the half-done framing marking out where the main offices and labs and clinic rooms would be. But for the moment the only usable part of the facility was a small side-building that would serve as her office until the rest of the place was up and running.

It wasn’t terribly impressive at first glance. It was small, and furnished with scavenged equipment of wildly varying quality, but none of that bothered her. By now it felt familiar.

“It’s just like being back on the ship,” she said. 

“Come on,” said Tom, teasing, “don’t insult the construction team. It has to be better than something slapped together in helicopter bay. Although, truth be told, most of the equipment is from the the ship.”

Rachel wasn’t surprised. Getting a building up was one thing, manufacturing cutting edge research equipment was quite another. They’d be stuck scavenging for existing machines to furnish the lab with long after the construction on the building was done. “I suppose you were bound to want your bay back eventually.”

Tom made a mildly disagreeing noise. “Maybe. But the ship won’t feel the same without you on it.”

She pulled away from him then, her arm slipping free as she walked over to the refrigerators. She wasn’t sure what to say to that. In truth, she would rather be on the ship with him than anywhere else, but it was too impractical to suggest. Their respective missions were diverging.

There were blood samples already waiting for her in the fridge. Neatly labelled, from Lincoln, from Santa Fe, from a few places she’d never heard of that she’d have to map out later. “So much for my tour of America,” she said.

Tom was quiet for so long she though he might not respond. “It’ll be easier to protect you here.”

Guards had been stationed outside her hospital room around the clock, and now that she had her own apartment there were guards there as well. They kept her on the same floor as the President to make it easier. Even now, even though they were alone, she knew Tom was armed. 

“Yes, I’m sure it will be,” she said, more bitterly than she’d intended, and she could hear Tom sigh behind her.

She closed her eyes as he stepped closer, gently resting his hands on her shoulders. “It’s not going to be like this forever,” he said, his voice low and reassuring. He was so close to her, and for a second she thought about leaning back until she was resting against his chest.

“Are you sure?” she asked, tension coursing through her. “First it was Ruskov, and the it was Granderson, and then it was Ramsey. Except it wasn’t really Ruskov first now that I think about it. Fucking Niels. And there’s always going to be someone just-“

“Rachel,” he said, and she stopped herself, swallowing down her fears. “I’m sure.”

He said it with such confidence that she could almost believe him. She turned, facing him, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “People just make it so hard,” she said, her face pressed into his uniform jacket as she sighed. “So much harder than it has to be, when nature herself is already so savage.”

“I know,” he said, his arms tightening around her. “You know, I talked to the President the other day. They’re talking about putting your face on the ration stamps.”

“Very funny,” she said, sniffling slightly.

Tom shook his head. “It’s not a joke,” he said. “They’re looking for a portrait artist and everything.”

She laughed. “It sounds like a joke to me,” she said. Everyone seemed at least a little bit in awe of her, and she never would have guessed how unsettling that could be. “If they do me they’re going to have to do you as well.”

“Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head and pulling back. “They can do the _Nathan James_ if they have to. My face doesn’t need to be on anything. Besides, you’re the one who deserves the recognition.”

“Is that so? I think I've had enough of it.”

He looked at her with the sort of intensity that always tempted her to avert her eyes. “You know, you never struck me as the shy type.”

“A couple of years ago I would’ve agreed with you. Hell, anyone who knew me would have agreed with you.” She’d always craved the limelight, craved approval for her work. She’d had big dreams. “But I was always out for something more along the lines of a Nobel Prize,” she said. “Playing humanity’s savior is a little much even for me.”

“You need to be careful,” Tom said.

“What? That I don’t let it go to my head?” _That I don’t get shot again,_ she thought, but she kept that part to herself.

“That you don’t let it isolate you,” he said. And who was he to say something like that, when he’d never been the one isolated? It was a harsh thought, and she regretted it the moment it passed through her head. He’d lost so many people, just like everyone else. His wife, so much of his family. But he still had his children, and a whole ship full of devoted crew. She was a little bit jealous, if she were honest with herself.

He had so much already, and still he stood there looking like he might want her too.

Adoration, she’d found, didn’t mean much coming from strangers. But coming from someone who knew her, well, that was different. She still remembered the early days, back when he had faith in her even when he had no real reason. She had no vaccine to offer, no cure, just the promise that yes, yes, she could do it. If only he could move heaven and earth to get her what she needed.

“It’s like something out of a fairytale,” she said.

“What?”

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s nonsense, really. Some wizard says they’ll grant you a wish if only you can bring them three half-impossible things. A centrifuge, a couple of monkeys, a blood sample. Each task is supposed to be impossible, but then somehow the hero does it anyway.”

“That’s a romantic way of putting,” he said. And he was right. It sounded frivolous, saying it out loud. Not sick with fear and anxiety like it really was. Like it still was, sometimes.

“Yes,” she said. She felt flustered, and warm, and her chest and shoulder ached from having been standing for so long. She still had to be so careful with how much she moved, how much she did. Tom was worried she would work herself into an early grave, she knew, and it would take far less work to do away with her now than before she was shot. For the second time. She'd been lucky the first time, in the Arctic, when it had been a simple pass-through. She supposed everyone’s luck ran out eventually, though, and she couldn’t claim to have gotten any less than her fair share. She wondered, if it had been any other Captain but the one she got, if any of her hard work would have mattered. “Sorry.”

“Do you want to sit down?” he said, gently, like he could sense how tired she was. He’d been very gentle with her ever since the shooting, and sometimes she thought it might be nice to work him up until he was yelling at her again. She wouldn't say he had a temper, not exactly, but he was unyielding in many ways, and by now she knew which buttons to push.

But she was too tired for that at the moment. And, as loathe as she was to admit it, she would very much like to sit down.

She nodded, and he guided her to a work bench with one broad hand on her shoulder. When she sat down he sat next to her, close enough that their thighs were pressed together, and she resisted the urge to sigh. 

“After we rest for a minute I can take you back to your apartment," he said, and she nodded. Really, she ought to start in on the samples, but Tom would just insist if she tried to stay any longer. "If you want we can get dinner."

“Oh,” she said, slightly surprised. He was with her so often in the hospital, but he'd pulled back once she'd moved to her apartment. She didn't think he'd ever been inside, only dropped her off at the door. "Yes, I'd like that."

He nodded, his on her lower back as he shifted towards her. "If you want," he said, and then for some reason he started again, "If you want, I was hoping I could stay the night at your place." 

Tom was so straight-backed and proper she could almost believe he was asking to sleep on her couch for some reason. But his hand was still on the small of her back, warm and heavy, and she wished they were at her apartment already.

She remembered how he'd looked at her that first night in St. Louis, remembered how very close she'd come to outright asking to spend the night in the room. She wished she had. It would have made all the difference in the world, in more ways than one. “Yes,” she said. She wasn't sure why she hadn't just asked him since. Maybe it’d been too long since she had to worry the answer might be no. Before, most of the time, she hadn’t cared. The feelings hadn’t ever been so strong that she couldn't simply shake off a rejection and happily move on with her life. “Yes, I’d like that.”

She felt awake again, suddenly, and she rose to her feet. “Rachel?” asked Tom, rising to follow her. 

Maybe it wasn't fear. Maybe they’d both been waiting for the right time - but there were always so many emergencies, so many things standing the way. Old attachments, moral disagreements, a nearly lethal gunshot through her shoulder. She was sure something else would come up again soon enough, but hopefully not in the ten minute drive back to her apartment. “Let's go now," she said. "I'm ready." 

He looked at her, and she wanted so badly to kiss him. For a second time, even though she’s thought about it so often it feels like it must be the hundredth. And it wasn't like the first time should count for anything, even if she had meant it a little more than she'd been willing to admit to herself at the time. But not here, not in her office. She wanted to be at home - her apartment, his house, back in their quarters on the old ship even. Someplace where she wouldn’t have to stop, because she wanted more than kissing, she wanted to fall back on her bed and have sex with him and fall asleep beside him and wake up in the morning with him still there.

And then she kissed him anyway, because she was tired of waiting. Tom reacted immediately, his mouth moving hard and warm against hers, needy enough that she might almost call it possessive. He wanted her as badly as she wanted him, and knowing that felt just as good as his mouth, as his hands at her hips. 

Eventually, with reluctance, she pulled away. "Come on," she said, breathless, "take me home." 


End file.
